


Rough Night

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/M, Just Straight Ridiculousness, Pre-Relationship, Sleep talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 10:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11378385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: “It’s fine, it’ll be fine, but, like, my whole bed is a wet spot because I may have beaten up some teenagers,” she grunts.He doesn’t even know where to start with that.  “You beat up teenagers?”





	Rough Night

The night after Doc rakes him over the coals for expressing the very _idea_ that he might stay in Purgatory (which he’s still kind of amazed by—he’s an adult, he can make his own bad decisions, thanks), Wynonna wakes him up in the dead of night, not even kinda drunk but definitely carrying a bottle.  Her eyes are glassy and her hair’s a mess and when she’s closer he can smell smoke.

“Gotta stop picking fights—keep forgetting people here are just as crazy as I am,” she says.

“So you came to Shorty’s?” he rasps, still half-asleep.

With a look that’s more than a little offended, she looks up and laughs a little too giddily but her eyes have gone hard and her lips twist wryly around the words, “Kinda limited on places to go, and your old boss won’t let me sleep at my _desk_.”  They tumble out coated in venom and she immediately digs her knuckle into her eye and groans a low curse before, “I’m—sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve…  I didn’t even mean to come down here.”

Even by the dark, lit only by moonlight and the blinking lights of Rosita’s computer, he can see the hurt and anger and almost fear on her face—and he’s _helpless_ to resist that face, and he hates that he is, but he does his best to move to one side of the small bed and waves her over.  He’s not 100% sure it’s actually a bed.  He has his suspicions it’s just old couch cushions on top of liquor crates.  She only hesitates for half a beat before she drops next to him, opposite him so her boots knock against his shoulder and he huffs, put-upon.  She shifts and wriggles and pushes until her back is against the post.  He asks her what happened but she pretends she doesn’t hear him—he can tell the difference in the way she frowns as she takes a swig.  He bumps her hip with his foot until she heaves a frustrated sigh.

“It’s fine, it’ll be fine, but, like, my whole bed is a wet spot because I _may_ have beaten up some teenagers,” she grunts.

He doesn’t even know where to _start_ with that.  “You beat up teenagers?”

“They called me Mom and I am _so_ not old enough to be _any_ of their moms—no matter _how_ young I started,” she says viciously.  “Also, they were between me and the vessel for a demon which I _really, really needed_.”

“And they tried to burn down your house?”

“I actually think it was their moms, but yeah.” 

“Earp—”

“Can we—” she pauses, shoving her hand through her hair, “Can you just not lecture me until after my hair doesn’t smell like the burning remnants of my terrible childhood?”  He thinks she may be going for annoyed, but he hears the note of pleading in her voice.

Raising up two hands in surrender, he relents and tucks them behind his head—there’s a twinge in his gut where it pulls a little, but it’s not painful.  Still tired but too wired by her sudden presence, he lets his eyes fall shut.  In the complete silence around them, he can hear her every move and breath and feels like if he tried he could hear her heartbeat.  The bottle sloshes, the bed shifts and he hears glass on concrete.  When his eyelids crack, she’s looking almost through him with that blank-eyed stare he’s seen a thousand times before in more people than he can remember.

“Earp,” he prompts gently.  Her eyes clear.  “Take your shoes off.”

With a dry snort, she kicks them off, and they smack flat on the ground.  Movements jerky with the unsteady gives and unpredictable firmness of the bed, she clambers up along his side and settles in there, up on one elbow and close enough that he can feel her breath and smell whiskey and burnt plastic.  And he thinks—he _knows_ —she’s gonna try to kiss him and _God_ he wants her to, no matter how bad an idea it would be.  That moment stretches on and on and on and she glances down at his lips and bites her own and—

“I’m not, like, popping any stitches right now, am I?” she asks lowly, dropping her head next to his on his pillow.  “Becau—” she stifles a yawn, “Because that would be _way_ ruder than waking you up in the middle of the night.”

Instead of answering, he rolls onto his side.  His hand lifts, hovers over her side, her shoulder, her cheek.  She tips her chin towards him a little, and her lips curl when he _does_ let his fingers trail over her cheekbone, delicately over the ridge of her nose, from the jut of her jaw to her ear.  He feels her press her palm flat to his belly, just over his not-totally-healed wound.  It’s not enough pressure to hurt, and it’s gone soon enough in favor of wrapping her arm around his middle.  After a little while, he can feel her breath go even and steady against his throat.

And that lasts for _maybe_ 45 minutes, which, given he’s not exactly used to having her curled up and comfortable under his chin, isn’t what he’d call enough time to get back to sleep.  It starts out as an unintelligible murmur, a small noise of distress, and he wonders if she’s having a nightmare.  But then she says, perfectly clearly, “But don’t hurt the dragon princess, Dolls.”  It shocks a laugh right out of him, which must startle her awake because she sits straight up with a gasp—

“Wynonna,” he chokes on barely-concealed laughter, reaching for her.

“What…?”

“You were talking in your sleep,” he says, trying to keep his voice even.  “Now, I can understand sleep talking—but what I _don’t_ understand is the princess dragon dream and why I’m in it.”

“Ugh,” she groans, flopping back onto his outstretched arm.  “You’re a dick.”

“And why would I _hurt_ the dragon princess?” he continues, mockingly thoughtful.

“A _dick_.”  She turns to look at him sharply.  “Stop _laughing_.”

Unfortunately, that has the opposite effect.

**Author's Note:**

> This was in response to "prompt: 'I understand the whole sleep talking thing but what I don't understand is the princess dragon dream and why I'm in it.'" A few liberties were taken.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and please swing by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) where I am just constantly talking about these nerds.


End file.
